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Identities: Who am I?


Futile. Like grains of sand running through our fingers. The deeper we look, the less we understand. We admire the spirit of a child. They seem to hold the hope we long to possess. We mistake knowledge for power, power for control, and we still have no understanding who we are. Of what we are. So who am I?


I look at who I am. I flounder through life frantically gasping for air on dry land as I long to go home. But the only thing that took me from home was my selfish desire. I pursue it despite the cost. I even know the pain that is to come. The devil dangles false hope as I pursue aimlessly forgetting the reality that I forfeit life for momentary satisfaction. I ponder as the fish flops hopelessly gasping for life wondering how a creature could be so foolish. But deep down I know I am only looking at my own reflection.


How much do I have to change to be loved? Am I loveable just as I am? I am stubborn and foolish. Hardheaded in the worst ways. I long for the things that choke the life out of my Spirit. I long to say no, but I always say yes. I wrestle with the reality that sin has stood in the way of what I could be. What I should be. Sin has hardened the sinful reality that is my existence. And I long to understand if even an ounce of perfection is sustainable.


Why did our King sit on a throne beneath us? We trampled over Him. We thought our King would have a triumphant entrance, but He all but mastered defeat. And yet He was still victorious. Seeing beyond the concept of time, He knew the victory that was to come. So where do I fall on the timeline of eternity? What role do I play? Between preparation and compulsion lies the reality of my existence. Am I to assume because I enjoy something it means it is right for me to pursue? I enjoy many things that take me far from home. And I am hopelessly unsatisfied.


We long for happiness. We pursue the American Dream, forgetting the American Dream left many dead in its pursuit. We say we long for peace but forge the path through destruction. Like lumberjacks, we cut down those that stand before us. Our world is comprised of objects; merely flesh meant to propel us to the places we want to go. Our coworkers are nothing more than vehicles to our next destination-- abandoned at the first chance of opportunity. Where does grace rest in that?


An undead savior and an inevitable final breath. Between rests the hope that is to guide us. So where are we now? Who are we? Does the mirror or the perception of the outside world reflect the truth? To be honest, the things we hate the most are often reality in the outside world as the mirror reflects the hope of who we long to be. Who we can be. Who I can be.


In a world of every reidentification, how do I identify? Forget the ridiculous focus of gender and ethnicity; eternity is on the line. The world we are meant to be part of may not welcome us as citizens. Although we have heard of them, they may not have heard of us. So where is our citizenship? Where do we identify? Who can identify me? Where am I on the timeline of eternity?


Honestly, who am I?

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